BLOOD OF CHRIST
(C)1998 Alan M. Schwartz
The Catholic miracle of transubstantiation purportedly mutates a
dismal starchy wafer into christflesh (singular representations
of anatomical compartmentalization re anus, scalp, and armpits
rendered tastefully amorphous by divine food processing). Red
wine mutates into Christ's blood, recalling vampirism. (Iron
contaminated alcoholic beverages taste purely awful, but we are
talking miracles). Amidst sacramental whines and guided missals
launched from One True Church altars remain inexorable facts that
booze swilling is unadulterated sin (zero tolerance, save our
children!), and reformed alcoholics are intolerant of even a sip
of their once and future perfect drug. Congregations therefore
seek alternatives. Voluntarily suspend disbelief and anything is
possible.
Overpriced (consecrated) red plonk of orthodox liturgy gives way
to morally afflicted possibilities. One speculates as to effects
wrought upon the Big Guy ( 1-in-3 and 3-in-1, like a hyped mostly
harmless lubricant or technologically advanced breath mint) in
heaven when divine veins sudden run grape juice, sparkling cider,
or Nyquil (Mr. Spock's 20-proof Vulcan color variant replete with
pre-emptive hangover cures).
If you were the Cosmic Whatsis preoccupied each Sunday with
mobilizing for another worldwide run on divine blood bank assets,
would you lend succor to a golden chalice of Annie Greensprings?
Do angels in Heaven queue up to plasmaphoresis contrivances
preparatory to transubstantiating club soda? (Not seltzer!)
The wheat wafer and wine thingie prospered in the Middle Ages as
a One True Church advertising gimmick when peasantry were growing
coarse barley or ergoted rye and slurping whatever starchy
abomination rotted to alcohol while sitting unattended as aqueous
slurry in a mud hut. Imagine their passion for a nibble at
priests' fine food and a sniff/taste of grape wine. Those might
have been the only things not tainted by smells of urine and
feces a peasant encountered all week. Communion was a glimpse of
heaven wherein angels retained some of their teeth in adulthood.
Tragic decline in First World Roman Catholicism, whatever the
Vatican's Officially claimed inventory of earthly souls, traces
to stodgy management stubbornly parading Speedy Alka Seltzer long
after their competition embraced pseudoephedrine hydrochloride,
acetaminophen, chloropheniramine maleate, and excipients. Meryl
Streep triumphs over her runny nose and stuffed sinuses without
an Alar-contaminated apple keeping the doctor away in sight,
snowboarding through flowered fields and shyly exposing her
washboard tummy. The Virgin Mary is stuck with dispensation of
homeopathic indulgences by heterosexually celibate priests to
people on their knees vaguely queasy with flashbacks of Monica
Lewinsky and Bill Clinton.
How can the Vatican resurrect bottom lines of revenue and upscale
consumerism? Bellowing 14th century polemics at 21st century
Sybarites, waving an emaciated faggot demigod on a stick,
buggering altar boys, cloistering nuns, and threatening an
afterlife eternity of mouths overflowing with burning ordure to
folks cozy with McDonalds and Duke Nuke'em are absurdities.
Christianity's tangible foundations are pagan and voluptuary.
Its imperious Judaic mission statement is a spare skeleton
honored in the breach and fleshed out with Roman political
demands of bread, circuses, and perquisite-laden administration.
The Borg Collective of religions must again assimilate lest
consumer resistance prove not futile but fruitful.
Baptist and Fundamentalist consensus exults Chamber of Commerce
boosterism with kindergarten joviality and carpetbagger rapacity.
Tailored to poverty stricken agrarian crowds wowed by Branson, MO
entertainment, they extract monthly Social Security checks but
fail to tap mother lodes of wealth directed toward Las Vegas,
Wall Street, Hollywood, professional sex workers, and
recreational pharmaceuticals.
Frat initiation chairmen and drill sergeants argue that insanely
stupid group sacrifice cements proximate trust and lifelong
bonds. Christianity must embrace two divergent innovations: An
atrium whose doorway is upholstered with thorns and an accessible
inner circle where ostensible sin inverts to robust celebration.
Scientology successfully plays this game, for L. Ron Hubbard was
close confidant to Robert A Heinlein and his "Stranger in a
Strange Land." Mormons were there first, they in turn being
inspired by Joseph Smith and his knowledge of Freemasonry.
The Church of Rome is in dour need of revelation up close and
personal. It thirsts for excuses that play in Peoria to shuck
off a millennium of pompous, tedious absurdities and tap world
economies with verve and moxie. Absolute universal support of
fornication and birth control is a fat campaign promise,
bolstered by sacramental use of drugs and a worldly exaltation of
personal wealth. A billion destitute adherents is not nearly as
much fun as a billion affluent ones.
As for the blood of Christ... we use Zima. Like Christianity, it
requires a divine miracle to render it palatable.